


I got this

by shittershutter



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 04:32:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11913282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: “I got this,” he says digging his finger into Farrier’s chest, not in accusation; rather pinning him in place. “I got you.”





	I got this

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [心有所属](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12008322) by [ophelia0306](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophelia0306/pseuds/ophelia0306)



> I'm bad at naming things. 
> 
> It's also unbetad. Sorry.

The club they frequent gets raided by the police in late 1937. It happens fairly often, and Farrier is experienced in sneaking out right under the authority's nose, but it is either him getting older or having Collins with him that adds exhaustion, almost sadness to the adrenaline rush he is accustomed to feeling in the given circumstances. 

And Farrier decides long ago that if he is going to be a sodomite, just like his mama calls him, he sure as fuck will never be a sad one. 

They sit behind the dumpster waiting for the sirens and whistles to subside, next to a Greta Garbo impersonator fresh from the stage, complete with an exquisite white dress with a fluffy collar that tickles Collins' cheek.

Collins lends Greta his worn, inconspicuous coat -- empty pockets, no identification, nothing memorable -- bless his heart. So Farrier wraps them both in his own one, gathering the man in his arms.

Collins just tucks his face into his neck, his breathing hot, fingers cold on Farrier's ribs, like he does when they sleep. 

It gets quiet around them little by little as the sky becomes lighter at the edges. 

Greta is about to dart off into the darkness and Farrier catches her by the ankle, eyes pointing to the heels she is wearing. 

"10 minutes," he mouths. 

Like in an aerial flight, they taught him, when it looks like you've won, give it a good long minute and look again.

Collins has glittering confetti burst stuck to his eyelid. Farrier just looks down and can't resist to kiss it off. 

"You know I love you, right?" Collins purrs in response to this, half-drunk, half-asleep, burrowing deeper into the other man's body like he tries to get under the skin. 

He is probably saying this to counterpoint the sirens and the batons they so narrowly escape.

It’s been three years and economical as he is with the words, Farrier does his best to imply the love rather than proclaim it. Collins adapts and implies it right back, wordless, even though knowing him he’d probably prefer to scream about it from every rooftop. 

Farrier knows not to talk about things he doesn’t want to lose. The life has taught him damn well.

He hopes he doesn't shudder too hard -- or maybe him shaking can be attributed to the cold -- when he opens his mouth after what feels like centuries and...

“You are actually supposed to say it right back,” Greta whispers theatrically. “The moment is gone now.”

He closes his eyes then and listens to their combined heartbeat. When he opens his eyes again, Greta is gone with an admirable stealth. With Collins' coat on her back, too. 

It's still dark when they walk home as they share the coat and walk in each other steps, Collins tucked neatly under his arm. 

* * * 

Farrier helps the other man to untie his boots as the adrenaline is still buzzing through them both; the unspoken words inside his throat he can’t give back make him stay down between the legs.

He bumps Collins’ knees apart rubbing his head against the fabric of his trousers. The warmth of the man’s skin radiates through as he pushes his face into his groin and breathes in, the wool and the skin, nuzzling.

He feels the hand sliding through the short hairs at the back of his head, rubbing, and at this moment in time he feels calm, feels like he is where he belongs. 

Collins sighs and just lets him stay there even though the length of his cock is hardening, the outline pushing against the fabric. He buckles a few times, but it’s playful rather than desperate. 

As far as their years together go, Collins lets him have a moment when he needs it and doesn’t ask silly questions after. If he didn’t love the man for anything else, he’d stick around just for this.

Farrier slides his wet mouth along the length, root to the tip and back. He’d do it forever, he intends to, but Collins starts gasping, his trousers soaking wet with saliva now. They absolutely have to undress each other now; there is no other way around it. 

* * * 

It takes him time. Collins is long, all over: the limbs, the cock, the fucking eyelashes. Farrier takes the head in and has to pause to brace himself for the rest.

He is a bit stiff in his hips after crouching down on the ground for hours. Collins is rubbing his lower back in broad circles to ease his body up a bit, and he’d focus on tender hands and let the gravity take over in its own time, but it’s Collins’ ability to speak he is concerned with, and there is only one way he can affect it. 

So he grits his teeth and pushes down to make him shut up for good. 

He can't meet the eyes of the man under him now so he just looks down at his own painfully hard prick, at Collins' stomach muscles that contract with the effort to keep him still. 

His own flesh spreads and gives until he is sitting on Collins, feeling him vibrate like an engine.

He digs his knees and elbows in, good and proper, arches his back and Collins is in as deep as he can go. The other man's frantic heartbeat is pulsating through him, from his stretched hole to the tips of the fingers, up to the temples. 

Collins grabs him by the jaw and makes him look at him, finally. Farrier is grateful; he needs all the help he can get with this. 

He looks up then into the eyes that are sky to him when he is on the ground. In moments like this, when Collins' mask slips off he's always floored by how young the man really looks.

He should neither be in the military nor Farrier's bed, not with the eyes this honest and bright. The depth of them hurts almost physically, and Farrier shakes his head, blinking hard, to chase away the uneasy feeling. 

Collins takes him by the throat then, soft hand keeping him in place, eye to eye, and pushes up, merciless and precise.

Farrier forgets to breathe, but his feverish brain finally focuses on the moment he is in.

He looks down at his cock again, leaking down his balls, down Collins' belly. 

Collins sneaks his free hand around his arsecheek, pulling, to push himself deeper. 

He finally remembers about his own hands, and he pushes them into Collins' straw hair, soft pads against the scalp. 

Collins hums and throws his head back but doesn't let go. 

"Do it for me, love," he whispers, small kisses against Farrier's mouth. He puts his palm against the underside of the older man's cock, barely touching, just keeping it there and Farrier gasps, pushing against it, and comes, sticky and hot strings around the other man's fingers. 

Collins moans with him, fingers circling his cock seconds too late, rubbing the sticky mess in and he pounds up with the raw power he allows Farrier to feel until he is spent, until his legs drop limply to the bed. 

Farrier sits on him for the longest time feeling him leak out of his body and soften, fingers in the man's hair still.

"I don't expect you to say anything," Collins mumbles into a cloud of cigarette smoke between them. With it, some of his seriousness returns. 

He pushes his hips up for a few more times experimentally. Even though there is not much girth left to push with, they both gasp with how sensitive they are.

"I can see you are thinking it, here," he adds a bit smugly and rubs Farrier's eyelid with his thumb. 

Farrier hums and nuzzles his face back, grateful for the opportunity to finally close his eyes -- something he didn't do for what feels like centuries. And they burn either from that or some unspoken emotion right under the surface. 

When he opens his eyes again, Collins still looks back at him, face harder. 

“I got this,” he says digging his finger into Farrier’s chest, not in accusation; rather pinning him in place. “I got you.”

He sounds almost clinical, free of sappy proclamations; the way Farrier is used to hearing him in his ear when they fly. 

What Farrier feels is a hot flush of gratitude spreading red across his skin from the chest to the roots of his hair. It is hard to breathe through. 

He collapses onto Collins’ chest, an arm with a cigarette sticking out vertically. Collins takes it out of his fingers to finish it and wraps a lazy hand around him. He does not say anything else.


End file.
